


You Are, You Will

by ryukoishida



Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Light Angst, M/M, Post-Canon, they need a tag for Isfan for one thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-18
Updated: 2015-09-18
Packaged: 2018-04-21 09:31:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4823876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s a routine – a habit, at this point – the way Gieve can set his heart racing and body shivering with want with just a single, heated glance, the way Isfan allows this to happen again and again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Are, You Will

**Author's Note:**

> Based on an anon’s wonderful prompt about long haired!Gieve and possibly heavily influenced by Sodagreen's very emotional track 「我好想你」("I Miss You So Much"). It got really serious really fast, and I’m not sure what happened there. I can never seem to write a straightforward nsfw scene. Nope. Got to make the characters suffer and overthink everything first.

The peaceful era has made him complacent, Isfan thinks, though not without a tinge of pleased fondness as he silently watches the wandering musician saunter into his bed chamber, his vibrant red-violet hair darkened into sleek black waves that hangs several inches over his shoulder. Droplets of water are still trickling occasionally from the tips.

The sash around his waist is loosely tied so that the collar of his scarlet tunic falls open to reveal the enticing jut of his collarbone and a sliver of pale skin that leads down to his midriff, lightly flushed from the warmth of the bath. 

A haze of spiced scent – a sensuous mixture of lavender, cloves, and roses – wafts through the small but fully furnished room, and Isfan suddenly finds it difficult to concentrate on anything else but the man before him. Gieve gives Kayvan and Bahram each a pat on the head, before settling beside the brunet on the mattress with the easy grace of a gazelle, a little too close – heat from his bare skin flaring against Isfan, and he releases a shaky breath – but still not close enough.

The two wolves lie back down sleepily at the foot of Isfan’s bed after greeting their master’s guest. The room is quiet except for the rumbling breathing of the canines, and Isfan is not used to having another human presence in his room – not after months of stagnant silence interrupted only once by the musician’s brief and cryptic letter that tells him less than the number of flowery words are supposed to portray. 

On some nights, restless and tossing in his sleep, he dreams of his voice – not the insouciant tone that always accompanies the man's casual remarks, but the rich baritone of his singing, the lyrics made more incomprehensible drenched in the succulent notes of the oud, hazy as stardust in the depth of his mind, but it sends a trail of such comforting warmth that, when he wakes up, the sheets always feel too cold, the bed too empty.

Isfan tries not to let that sentiment bother him, and it's easier to hide when he's alone.

Gieve is drying his hair with a cloth, humming a tune under his breath and occasionally bringing up a lock of his hair as if to scrutinize it, before noticing that Isfan is gazing at him, lower lip caught between his teeth with a thoughtful frown etched on his brows.

“You’ve missed me that much, Isfan-kyou?” Gieve leans forward all of a sudden with a leering grin, obviously ignoring what normal people would define as personal space, and teasingly traces the other man’s cheekbone with his thumb. The loose garment slips down one of his slender shoulders with the fluid motion, revealing more creamy skin and graceful lines and angles that Isfan is trying very hard to pointedly ignore.

The urge to reach out, to feel the supple firmness of his muscles beneath the thin cotton and mark that expanse of skin with his teeth and nails, is an overwhelming feeling, a snarling wolf barely caged in by reason, dying to escape, to conquer.

Instead, the brunet grunts indignantly as he shoves Gieve’s hand away, though the young musician sees with delight that a blush has started to spread on the knight’s cheeks.

"Don't get carried away just because His Highness was satisfied with your reports."

"Surely, even you can't find any fault with the work I’ve done so dutifully over the past few months? If you say otherwise, you’d been wounding my ego.” Gieve has returned to his steadfast task of drying his hair, as if he hasn’t just attempted to start something inappropriate a short while ago, though his smirk has yet to disappear, so it seems like Gieve is not done teasing him just yet.

“Your ego is inflated enough as it is,” Isfan mutters, “You don’t need my compliments to make it worst.”

When Gieve surprisingly doesn’t return with a brazen reply, Isfan glances up with a curious regard and notices that the drying cloth has been abandoned on the floor and the musician is gazing at him, tendrils of dark hair trailing down tantalizingly over his bare shoulder that begs to be touched and played with, and he’s smiling with open invitation, sea-green irises urging him – wordlessly daring him, almost – to come closer.

Isfan lowers his gaze, heart thudding loud and fast against his ribcage.

It’s a routine – a habit, at this point – the way Gieve can set his heart racing and body shivering with want with just a single, heated glance, the way Isfan allows this to happen again and again.

They don’t talk about this – whatever _this_ is that they’ve shared for the past year. It started with a stupid argument that nobody remembered the source of fueled by one too many glasses of spirits, and by the time when angry, careless insults turned into a rough fistfight, they found themselves standing just outside an empty storage room, fingers dug into each other’s clothing and their faces just inches away. The hallway was strangely deserted and every heaving breath they took was a thunderous echo.

Everything after that realization was a blazing blur of furious and messy kisses, clothes torn off in a desperate hurry to feel bare skin, and a dizzying pleasure that was at once addictive and devastating. When Isfan was awoken by a pounding headache the next morning, a snoring musician was sleeping on his arm facing him. Isfan’s other arm was thrown protectively around the slighter man’s waist, and his tunic and pants were haphazardly discarded to the side.

For just the briefest moment, Isfan was distracted by the dark lashes, a stark contrast against the musician’s milky skin, and chapped lips that were slightly parted.

The fact that Gieve was also lacking clothes didn’t go unnoticed by Isfan, either.

A few days after the “incident”, the two met in one of the hallways within the palace, Gieve having just said farewell to Arslan as he prepared to leave for another journey – to Turan for an undercover assignment, from what Kishward had told him.

“Isfan-kyou,” Gieve nodded his greeting with a fleeting smile as they passed by one another. The way his name passed through the musician’s lips was with that same frivolous tone he’s always used: a pretty, little melody of no significance.

They didn’t talk about what happened that night, and Isfan thought it was for the best. This wouldn’t happen again – why would it? – and so there was no reason in pursuing the issue other than simply passing it as a bad decision driven by alcohol.

Gieve must have felt the same, too. Isfan was certain of it.

“Isfan.”

Though Gieve’s voice is soft, it effectively tears Isfan out of his trance and drags him back to reality, and the reality is that he’s here right now, inside his bed chamber, in the state of being half undressed, and looking at him with such silent fervor and palpable hunger in his eyes as if he’d like nothing more than to devour him.

Gieve shifts a degree closer, the floral scent emanating from his skin pleasant yet haunting and engulfing Isfan’s mind, and lifts his hand to cradle the brunet’s jaw, the gesture so heartbreakingly gentle that Isfan feels his eyes flutter close on their own accord. He senses the sweet, moist warmth of Gieve’s breath against his lips for a few, torturous seconds until he swoops forward the entire way to plant a light, teasing kiss on the corner of his mouth.

A tiny, unsatisfied whine wrings from the back of Isfan’s throat, and Gieve chuckles.

He sits back languidly, the patient and waiting smirk on his face taunting Isfan to make the next move, but the young knight remains frozen in place, amber irises flickering with hesitation and he’s drawn his arms across his chest in a defensive stance with his head turned to the side, displaying a hint of wariness, like an animal being cautious around strangers. 

It’s always been this way: when Gieve returns to Ecbatana after month-long trips, he’d invite himself into Isfan’s residence, and after drinking a decent amount of wine to go with dinner and chatting aimlessly about his adventures in a foreign city, the wandering musician would somehow wind up in Isfan’s bed that night.

Isfan is never certain how to approach this – _him_. There is one thing, however, that Isfan is certain at this point in time: this vague relationship he has with Gieve has long crossed the boundary of them being mere acquaintances who sleep with each other for convenience. If that were the case, perhaps Isfan can let him go in the morning without his heart clenching tight or having the strange urge to plead him to stay a little longer.

‘Pathetic,’ Isfan would scold himself every time this happens, and yet he can never find the resolve to push him away. The iron confine that bars his heart is decaying into crumbling rust, and Isfan knows the cause of it too well.

"Have you grown shy in the months I've been away?" Gieve starts, his smile is still present but the sharpness has been reduced, his eyes guarded to gauge for Isfan’s reaction.

There are so many things he wants to say, and questions that demand thorough explanations, but Isfan can’t bring himself to utter a word at that moment, because he knows deep down that this – whatever they have right now – is a fragile momentum that once interrupted, cannot be resumed.

“It’s nothing,” Isfan says, but the phrase doesn’t sound convincing to anyone.

Gieve knows better than to pry, so he leaves it at that, and instead extends an inviting hand towards him, palm open. “Come.”

Like a man bewitched, lured in by the danger and beauty of a fantastical vision, Isfan inches closer, one hand reaching to the back of Gieve’s neck as he dives in with his eyes closed, all traces of doubt erased by just a touch of the musician’s lips, yielding and hot and pressing insistently against his until they both open up with a sigh.

Isfan runs his fingers through the musician’s hair, still slightly moist, the floral notes even more potent than before, almost overwhelmingly so; he’s intoxicated by it – this mixture of delicate lavender perfume and Gieve’s own scent. Isfan lowers himself further to suck a trail of wet kisses down the column of the other man’s neck, causing Gieve to shiver in his arms, his fingers grasping tightly onto Isfan’s shirt, and Isfan can’t help but grin a little at being finally able to rattle his nonchalant calm for once.

With one hand, the amber-eyed knight unties the sash that’s barely holding Gieve’s shirt together and pushes the offending garment off his body before ravishing his shoulder with more kisses that are more biting than gentle. Isfan is losing to the hungry wolf trapped inside him, letting its animalistic instinct consume him.

The alternating stings from his teeth and the soothing licks from his tongue is making Gieve’s blood sing, a tinkling melody that slowly ascends into something grander, even more promising, as Isfan’s hand wanders further down his abdomen, stopping briefly to play with his nipples before winding around to his lower back, leaving red half-moon impressions on his pale skin when Gieve calls out his name in a ragged whisper, the plea to touch him more, needing more, dripping from the tip of his tongue.

Gieve must have become more impatient than the knight has previously thought, as Isfan gives a surprised yelp when the musician clambers onto his lap with renewed vigor, his legs wrapped securely around Isfan’s waist, and the swell of his lower region is obvious to the brunet when Gieve deliberately grinds down against him.

When Isfan gives him a half-hearted, harassed glare, the effect ruined by the flush on his cheeks and the breathy sigh from his spit-shine lips, Gieve just returns the gesture with a mischievous grin before he attacks Isfan’s mouth again with more aggressive kisses that threaten to steal Isfan’s breath away. Lost in Gieve’s intoxicating scent and the zealous way he makes those hungry, little moans, Isfan once again buries his hand into the musician’s hair, loosely grasping the strands and tugging them just hard enough so that his head is tilted back with his throat exposed.

The reaction is instantaneous: Gieve releases a shuddering gasp, eyes flying open at the contrasting sensation of the slight pain of Isfan’s fingers pulling on his hair and the slow-burning kisses he peppers down his neck and collarbone.

“I-Isfan…” Gieve whimpers, and he doesn’t even mind that his voice has dissolved into a pleading tenor, hoarse and raw with need, and it’s so unlike his usual self that he’d feel a lot more uncomfortable if he isn’t with Isfan. He vaguely wonders what this means. Fortunately, he doesn’t have enough time to ponder on it too much.

"Your hair has grown so much since I last saw you," the comment slips through Isfan’s mouth as he turns to press a soft kiss on a lock of Gieve’s hair, amber eyes half-lidded when he glances up towards the musician, who looks wrecked and ruined, his skin gleaming in a sheen of sweat, and purple bruises are beginning to bloom along his neck and shoulders where Isfan has sucked particularly hard.

"It can't be helped," Gieve breathes out, irises darkening so that only bright blue-green rings are visible. “Undercover work is difficult when you have strangers recognizing you from left and right.”

“Your reputation always precedes you, hmm?” And Isfan pictures attractive strangers touching Gieve, kissing him the way he’s now, leaving their marks on him in the past, and something in his heart tremors – a warning that he’s been avoiding since the second time they’d ended up in the same bed.

“I didn’t ask to be this famous.” Gieve may actually have been pouting, but it’s difficult to tell when Isfan is too distracted by the way that the musician is twirling a strand of his forelocks with agitated fingers – a habit that Isfan has noticed very early on from their acquaintance. He catches that same hand in his, and kisses his knuckles lightly.

“Don’t act like you don’t enjoy all the attention, Gieve,” Isfan gives him a knowing look, and Gieve just bursts into laughter, dazzling and bursting like stars on a clear, summer night, and Isfan finds himself biting back a smile, too, as their fingers lace together, as he brings Gieve’s hand up once more and kisses the tip of his fingers one by one, an action which efficiently shuts Gieve up.

“You know me too well, truly,” Gieve gently pushes Isfan down on the mattress, tawny hair spread across the pillow, and Gieve follows with his body, chest against Isfan’s and dark violet locks tumbling over his shoulders messily like waterfall, the tips tickling Isfan’s skin. “When did that happen?” he asks in a softer murmur, lips hovering dangerously close to Isfan’s ear.

“I wonder,” Isfan replies, turning his head to meet Gieve in a gentle kiss, just a touch of lips, but Gieve is having none of that. The musician’s hand traces down the knight’s neck, past his chest and abdomen, and draws a thumb across Isfan’s hipbone back and forth before moving southward, his hand cupping Isfan’s clothed erection.

Even with that small contact, Gieve can feel Isfan’s frame shudder with anticipation, and when he lowers his head to nip and bite at his hipbone, he rubs Isfan through the thin material of his trousers, experimentally at first and then changing the pressure and pace into something more merciless. His grin widens when he hears Isfan gasping above him, and he doesn’t stop, imagining how the friction must have felt for the brunet, and how his own cock is leaking and ready.

“Hnng, gods…”

“Feels good?” Gieve asks teasingly without really expecting a coherent answer from Isfan, who continues to shake under the ministration of Gieve’s dexterous fingers.

It always surprises Gieve that the usually quiet and collected knight is capable of making such – frankly, lewd – noises when they’re in bed, but the musician is also somewhat strangely gratified by the fact that he’s the one who pulls those sounds out from him.

Stimulated by Isfan’s enthusiastic reaction, Gieve positions himself between Isfan’s legs after pulling his trousers down around his ankles

“G-Gieve, what are you doing?” His amber eyes have darkened into black and gold as he clambers up on his elbows dazedly, cheeks flushed pink and lips bitten red and swollen.

Instead of replying him with words, Gieve, with his steady, teal gaze trained solely on Isfan, licks his hardened length from root to tip, taking extra attention on the tip as he takes him into his mouth and gently sucks, eyes fluttering close at the musky taste.

“D-damn you,” he curses but with no real malice, one hand cradling the back of the musician’s head and fingers threaded through his locks as he looks on with wide, dark eyes. The velvet, wet heat of his mouth and the too-soft suction is unbearable; he wants more of it, yet he refuses to beg because he has more self-control than that, he thinks, and Gieve may or may not be playing that trait to his own advantage.    

“Hmm?” Gieve opens his eyes, his mouth still occupied but his brows arched in challenge as if to say, ‘What is it now?’

“You’re insufferable,” Isfan tells him, the insult fallen short of its effect when it’s utter in such a hoarse tone verging on a moan.

“So why do you put up with me?” Gieve releases the knight’s flushed cock with an indecent ‘pop’, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand as he sits back on his heels, waiting.

Why, oh why does he have to choose _this_ moment to be contemplative? Isfan wants to scream in frustration, but it’s a fair question; it’s also a question that Isfan has constantly been asking himself.

The answer is not complicated, so Isfan wonders why the right words just won’t come out, especially when Gieve is staring at him expectantly.

“Do we need to have this discussion right now?” He turns his head to the side, gaze averted.

“No,” Gieve tucks a loose strand of his hair behind his ear with casual grace, though his sea-green eyes are piercing, brows furrowed as if he’s annoyed at himself for bringing it up in the first place, and he wraps his arms around himself. “You’re right. We don’t have to talk about this. We don’t.” The repetition seems more like a feeble attempt to convince himself, and Isfan thinks that this may be the first time he’s seen the wandering musician looking so vulnerable, unsure.

He doesn’t dare say more. Words get ugly, and so they choose to hide behind actions and the almost-silence in between.

Isfan is still painfully aroused despite the disconcerting conversation they just had, and he can see that Gieve isn’t any better.

They don’t say anything, the stillness a fragile wall of glass that neither has the courage to shatter just yet, and Isfan approaches him as carefully as he would handling a piece of precious artwork, a hand reaching out to cradle the side of his face. Gieve wordlessly leans into the welcoming warmth, green irises uncharacteristically timid, but he’s angling towards Isfan, arms enfolding the taller man’s frame and chin resting on the brunet’s shoulder.

They don’t know how long they’ve remained like this – in each other’s embrace, breathing in and out, hearts beating the same rhythm, skin against skin – but the tension appears to have eased away, and they share a brief kiss.

“Shall we?” The sentiment is too polite for what they are, for how close they’ve become, but Gieve doesn’t seem to mind.

He nods his assent, and climbs atop Isfan’s lap, arms hanging off the man’s broad shoulders.

From his bedside table, Isfan takes the lid off of a small ceramic pot and dips two fingers in.

When Gieve feels the tip of Isfan’s finger entering him, cold and slippery with olive oil, he tenses up at the burning stretch just verging on this side of painful, though the ache quickly subsides to a heavy heat that’s more satisfying and solid, sparks skittering up his spine whenever his fingers hit that particular spot. He sinks down easily, eyes flickering close at the familiar sensation, and soon just two fingers are not enough to satiate the hunger roaring within him.

“Isfan, m-more,” he murmurs against Isfan’s lips, breathless and broken as he tries to get more friction by grinding down Isfan’s fingers harder, his cock, flushed and leaking, is rubbing against Isfan’s stomach and strands of sticky pre-cum have already made a mess on their skin.

“Mm.” After another bruising kiss, the brunet heaves the slighter man up by his thighs with ease, and carefully lowers him down, his tip just nudging Gieve’s entrance. It’s enough to tear a hiss out of Isfan as Gieve, releasing a long, drawn-out moan with his eyes squeezed tightly close, sinks all the way down with little difficulty.

This is something they’re used to, too: Gieve perched on top, graceful limbs draped around Isfan’s body and muscles taut and wound tight like one of the strings of his oud tuned too sharply, ready to snap, to slice skin.

Seizing a handful of the musician’s hair, Isfan pulls on the strands and scatters hot, wet kisses down his neck and shoulders, until he can feel Gieve shivering against him, fingernails scratching desperately down Isfan’s back in angry, red streaks, helpless and pleading for more.

In many people’s opinion, Gieve is a beautiful, unattainable creature – hard to capture, and even harder to restrain – but Isfan never wanted to do either of those things. Yet as he sees Gieve falling apart above him, broken, wrenched groans that’s partly cussing and partly Isfan’s name fluttering prettily from his mouth, scarlet flames setting alight golden stars and orange honeysuckles, Isfan feels the layers of illusory perfection conjured from his own mind crumble away.

Gieve is not perfect – far from it – but Isfan sometimes has a hard time accepting that – the fact that he’s as human as everyone else, and it scares him more than anything.  

“I… I don’t put up with you – that’s not it at all.” Isfan finds himself saying, one hand still buried in Gieve’s locks while the other is wrapping around his cock and pumping it in a torturously slow pace that’s not nearly enough for release.

“Isfan,” Gieve stops for a moment, chest still heaving, and touches his forehead against the brunet’s, violet hair bleeding into auburn. He bites his lower lip when he forces the other man to look straight at him, his teal eyes flaring in exasperated agitation. “Shut up for a moment… and fuck me in earnest.”

“I’m sorry, I –– ” Isfan doesn’t get to complete whatever he’s about to say, because Gieve decides that he’s had enough of this conversation, and proceeds to cover Isfan’s mouth with his own. This kiss is anything but tender, all biting and thrashing and unrefined.

At least Isfan is stroking his length again, and this time, Gieve joins him with a hand over the knight’s slightly bigger one, the pace much faster and more relentless than before, unbelievably tight and wet, and Gieve is hiding his face under the crook of Isfan’s neck, sobbing out meaningless, broken syllables when he feels the string of heat inside him winding tauter, flames ebbing outwards like waves towards the surface of his skin, and the silvery melody in his blood has become a menacing euphony that he’s drowning in, breathing in – the sweat on Isfan’s skin, salty and sharp on his tongue, the excruciating halo of heat emanated and shared between them, so heady he can taste it.

With Gieve held securely in his arms, Isfan thrusts upward and into the sweet, warm heat, each push and pull sending him deeper into the chaotic blankness of that pleasant dimension between static white noise and the frenzied howling of a famished wolf. He can tell when Gieve is close – his fingers clawing on Isfan’s arm hard enough to draw blood, and the rhythm they’ve initially set stuttering out of time.

When he lets go, it’s with a forceful shudder and a whisper of Isfan’s name, soft like it’s a secret. Isfan is combing through his locks with a soothing calm and kissing his cheek gently until he’s come down from his high.

Isfan comes soon after, growling and back arched off the mattress with one last, deep thrust before he climaxes.

Within that wall of almost-silence, held in each other’s embrace, their harsh breathing returns to a slower, steadier pace as sweat cools off in the night chill carried in from the open window.

The candles by his bedside are burning low, little flames flickering weakly in their last attempt to shine their brightest, but soon they will be drenched in darkness once more.

Gieve is climbing off of Isfan’s lap, his face casted in shadow so Isfan has no way of observing his expression, but before he can convince himself that this is a terrible idea, Isfan is already reaching out for Gieve, fingers clutched lightly around the musician’s wrist.

Gieve’s eyebrows quirk up in question.

“Stay?”

The ‘with me’ is unsaid, amber eyes straying to their clasped hands.

Isfan retrieves his hand back to his side, cold and empty.

“If you wish.”

His smile is a little tentative, but he lies back down beside Isfan after he’s cleaned them both up. A strand of violet hair falls into his eyes when he shifts to face Isfan, but he makes no movement to fix it, sea-green eyes fastened on Isfan so intently that the brunet can neither look away nor stop the blush from spreading on his face.

One of the candles dies out, and the corner of the room drops deeper into darkness.

“So, what did you want to tell me?”

“Hmm?”

The silence may have lasted for a mere minute, or an hour, but Isfan’s mind is falling into a pleasant white haze, and the warmth of another body – Gieve’s body – so close to his has made him careless.

“Before I so rudely interrupted your self-reflective speech, what were you about to say?”

He blinks a few times, wide-awake now that the words have come rushing back.

“I ­–– Gieve,” Isfan pauses, the unnamed emotion that has been just gentle, rolling waves washing back and forth along the shore and erasing any traces of scars left by Gieve’s repeated departures for the past years swiftly stirred up into a colossal tempest leaving a trail of wreckage in its wake, destroyed beyond repair. Isfan is ready for it; he’s been ready for a long time now. “I don’t just tolerate you. I ca–– ”

“Stop, Isfan,” Gieve has the decency to cover the other man’s mouth with a hand, a smile curved along his lips – sharp and dangerous, foreboding – and the light doesn’t touch his eyes at all. “Don’t say anything you’ll only regret later.”

“Mmmf!” It takes a surprising amount of strength to pry Gieve’s fingers off so he can speak. “I won’t! And how do you know what I was about to say anyway?”

“You’re like an open book.” This time when Gieve extends his hand out, it’s to touch the side of Isfan’s face, his smile softening into a more affectionate one. “It’s not difficult to surmise.”

“You’re the one who brought it up; you’re the one who wanted to know.”

“Well, I’ve changed my mind,” Gieve says it as easily as if he’s commenting on the weather, and something within Isfan’s chest burns brighter and hotter – a wild fire lashing around with no aim or control.

‘Selfish.’ ‘Unfair.’ ‘Why?’ These thoughts swirl in his head until they mesh into a hollow blur.

“You can’t just –– ” Isfan is about to argue, but he doesn’t get to finish his sentence.

“Don’t – ” When Isfan blinks up at him, he finds that Gieve has straddled his hips, face only inches away from his and his own two wrists are caged within the musician’s iron grasp. When he speaks the next words, it’s with a crisp, cold precision that sends shivers down Isfan’s spine. “Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do, Isfan. You know me better than that.”

Isfan does, and the fire in his chest that has been burning so violently only seconds ago simmers down as quickly as it has commenced. He turns his head away, eyes closed, unable to maintain Gieve’s fixed gaze anymore.

It’s too much.

It’s always been too much, and maybe Gieve’s right.

When both of them have calmed down, and Gieve has slipped back under the sheets beside Isfan again, the silence feels thicker than before, and Isfan isn’t sure if he has the strength to try to break free of it.

“I’ve been thinking,” Gieve murmurs after awhile, his voice almost lost in the darkness.

Only one candle remains burning now, the meager orange light about to die out with the slightest breeze.

“What?”

“I’ve been thinking about trimming my hair shorter.” Maybe Gieve is trying to lift the heavy atmosphere by picking an insignificant topic; he’s good at that.

“Why?”

Isfan has always had a strange fascination with the musician’s hair – a pretty indigo shade reflected in the sunlight and a cascade of black silk in a dimmed room. Ever since Gieve has decided to let his hair grow out to make his undercover assignments proceed more smoothly, the knight has become accustomed to playing with his hair every opportunity he gets. He knows that Gieve is only letting it grow because of his work, but Isfan will miss it – being the only one who’s allowed to touch it and causing Gieve to make the various, interesting noises whenever Isfan plays a little too roughly.

“It’s becoming too bothersome to take care of it,” and as if to prove his point, he picks up a lock of his hair and inspects it closely for some invisible flaw before heaving a dramatic sigh and giving up.

The expression is so ridiculous – so inexplicably Gieve – that Isfan can’t help but let out a small laugh.

“I’m glad my hair trouble is amusing you,” Gieve grins, and moves to ruffle Isfan’s locks, but he squirms away just far enough so that the musician can barely touch his hair.

“It’s a shame, but I can see what you mean.” When they settle down again, Isfan winds a strand of Gieve’s lock with his finger absentmindedly. “Need help with the trimming?”

“Do you even know how?” Gieve sends him a skeptical glance.

“I think I can manage.”

*

“Next time I return, I promise I’ll give you an adequate answer,” Gieve tells him before he leaves Isfan’s doorway, and when he continues with the next words, all traces of boisterous humor are gone, and the deep green of his eyes are piercing with solemnity. “But during this period of time while we’re apart, I hope you’ll re-consider your options carefully. You are a smart man. Don’t make the foolish mistake of getting mixed up with a shabby, wandering musician like myself.”

The autumn breeze teases through his hair, shorn to its usual length.

“I think it’s already far too late for that,” Isfan replies with a small chuckle, and they both know it’s true.

‘I’ve already made up my mind,’ Isfan wants to tell him right there and then.

But he doesn’t. He’ll wait.

Gieve deserves this much. They both do.

**Author's Note:**

> OHMYGOD I APOLOGIZE for the terrible sexytimes scenes. I swear I tried my hardest but I’m still not satisfied with it no matter how much I edit this crap. On the other hand, I really enjoy writing these two dorks so yeah expect a lot more of this ship from me from now on. I might also post my other Arslan Senki drabbles on here, but for the latest update, please follow my Tumblr (ryukoishida.tumblr.com). Thanks for reading!


End file.
